AW American Nightmare Presents: Said the Spider
by TheInnkeeper
Summary: Rewritten and resubmitted after realizing I'd made quite a few critical errors. Sometimes the creator in me is a bit too eager. Hope it reads better now. Mr. Scratch's encounter with Serena Valdivia. It's a horror story, so I think it will need an M rating after all.
1. Chapter 1

Alan Wake American Nightmare Presents: Said the Spider…

Ch. 1 Spinning the Web

Serena Valdivia's hair was his favorite color.

Black, of course, and why shouldn't it be, since he was Darkness itself? He himself was wearing it from head to toe, with the exception of a crisp, white shirt. He took special pains to care for this shirt. The color white was his second favorite, after all…although the temptation to paint it with his third favorite color was often too great to resist.

Why white? Dear, precious white-the symbol of purity-was almost mesmerizing to him. How he wished he had a collection of white things, trophies one might say, and not just the bones and other various detritus he'd gathered over the years, polished clean by the lake. Teeth certainly no longer interested him much. What would he collect? A white rose was his first thought, to better charm the ladies. Maybe as a tribute he'd grab reams of white paper. White fluffy towels (he'd already stolen a few from the motel down the road) a bowl of powdered sugar, or maybe gallons of white milk and vanilla ice cream…well, those spoiled all too quickly. White was the closest he'd ever come to touching the one thing he feared and yet somehow couldn't stay away from: light.

Light. He hated it, because it could hurt him. It burned, but yet without it color couldn't exist. His third favorite color, blood red, looked just as black as everything else in the dark. Troubling, that he would be so compelled by something that meant nothing less than certain death, and he couldn't say quite why.

Darkness, or the Dark Presence, was not only him but the truth of him. And the truth was that his true form was impossible to perceive by the wonderful humans he reached for, chased after, and played with until he killed them. Humans were endlessly fascinating. So willfully ignorant, arrogant, and vulnerable, and yet, when he would dance around them, they proved…interesting. They tried, so hard did they try to rise and become more…well, some of them did. And some of them learned, for the Dark Presence can't be seen with the naked eye, although it can be felt. It was just as well, for he could mimic any form he chose. Still, he was often drawn to those who had that other kind of vision, who could glimpse, if just for a moment, what he really was and not just the face he wore.

His previous shape was one he wore for a long time, a woman he allowed to age so he could grasp the humans' sense of Time. Time meant nothing to him. It was, in fact, a bit of mystery, much to his frustration, although he could grasp the hated concept called Daytime. The Dark Presence was eternal, after all. It was there before a certain Someone said "Let there be light," changing the rules and ending his reign, something he has been trying to reclaim ever since.

The concept of rules, or rather, one's faith in them, was one of his rare parameters. He wasn't sure how, but he was hidebound by them, no matter how nonsensical they were. This was why he craved the innocence of human children but was often thwarted by their simple prayers and simple faith in teddy bears and nightlights.

He liked his current form much better. It gave him an advantage that he hadn't tried before. He wore the face of a famous, albeit burned out writer, Alan Wake. Alan was the kind of human the Darkness had been waiting for while trapped for decades in Bright Falls, Washington. How he had come to be trapped there was another story, written in fact, by another writer, Thomas Zane. Alan Wake had inadvertently freed the Darkness somewhat, and it was going to use him to capitalize on the foothold it now had. Using the stories Alan created in earlier years for a show called Night Springs, the Dark Presence stole him away to a spitwad of a town in Arizona. It was in one of the softer places in the world, where reality blurred. For tonight, and for however long the Dark Presence could sustain the rift, the spitwad became Night Springs. One might think the Dark Presence had a slight problem with warmer places-too much sunlight. Perhaps it could only go here since the idea was based on one of Alan's inventions. Perhaps it was tired of lakes, mountains and pine trees. In any case, the desert was very dark and cool at night, and night was the one thing it could control in this story.

Writers and other creative people had an extra something the Dark Presence needed most desperately. For all of his power, tricks and magic, there was one thing he just couldn't do, something he also feared and yet craved: the power to create, and the freedom of it.

Oh, he could deceive mankind to think that he could, and that was still quite fun. He would often copy or split himself into pieces, or form whatever shapes he desired. But to create; hell, even procreate-to _make_ something, anything that stayed, that had a life of its own, that could grow and change and was free to choose to follow or break the rules-he couldn't do it. The Darkness couldn't do anything except corrupt that which already exists. And that's exactly what he did to the minions he twisted and shaped to carry out his desires. Alan called them The Taken, which might have been Thomas Zane's idea first. It suited them.

The Taken were easy to make. All it took was someone who was weak-willed, or weak-minded. With a great many that had everything they could ever need right at their fingertips, with a push of a button or a few clicks of a mouse, it had become almost too easy. And while that was quite efficient, it was not much fun.

If Alan had been born one hundred or even fifty years ago, the Dark Presence would have had a much harder time. This was all because of one small thing the majority of people seemed to be losing. If they only knew it was the greatest weapon in their arsenal against a force such as him…the weapon was faith, of course. Why was it that small children had it in spades but in adults it was nearly non-existent?

However, it was tied to that power of creation, and the Dark Presence wanted that power, and would use any means at his disposal to get it. He would lust after it, tempt it, twist and tease, but he needed that shining, creative soul, to give him the freedom he wanted so badly. If he could have that power himself, the world would be his once more. He would use it to grow bigger and more powerful, perhaps even using the humans like the girl he was watching to brazenly spread his blackened stain until the triple-cursed light plagued him no more.

He licked his borrowed lips, suddenly anxious to continue his entertainment.

"Serena," he whispered, gazing at his intended victim through the tiny office window of the deserted, ghostlike drive-in. Her head snapped up, blinking hard, as though she heard. It was a soothing name, giving way to other words such as peaceful, tranquil, calm and happy. It was a quiet name, but he didn't want to be quiet anymore, or to dwell in the silence of the lake. He wanted to make noise, to make a mess, and not just a mess of Alan's life. He wanted to make a mess of life itself.

Speaking of names, the Dark Presence, in fact, was just one of its many nicknames. Indeed, his true name, like his true face, was unperceivable. Not only was it unbearable to the ears, it was unpronounceable by the human tongue. This he knew, from tearing out so many. It was the inevitable result of a game he would sometimes play with his captives in which he would promise to set them free if they could just say it. The unintelligible, animalistic noises they would make always made him double over in laughter, even more than the screams and the gurgles.

Alan Wake's creative talent had given him a name that was strangely fitting. To hear it was to hear the sketchy white noise one finds on television or radio. A good attempt on the real name…good, that is, for a human tongue. And since in this world words have greater power than most humans understand, the Darkness accepted it as part of the gauntlet thrown by the beleaguered, tormented author. From the first time Alan uttered it, the Dark Presence became Mr. Scr*tch.


	2. Chapter 2 Prey for Us Sinners

Ch 2. Prey For Us Sinners

He didn't smell like she expected.

Serena Valdivia had the shock of her life on what should have been a dead evening. As a curator, she was preparing for the film festival that began the next day. She loved the nostalgic vibe of the old drive-in, and thought it was a great location for the venue. She hoped the owner would keep his word and finally rid the lot of all of the abandoned cars. Honestly! It was starting to look like a junkyard, a place where old, ugly cars went to die. She wanted it to be perfect, or as close to perfect as she could get.

Instead of having the night all to herself, where she was going to blast some music and settle down to work (she was excited to hear The Old Gods of Asgard play their new song) she heard what she thought was a tremendous riot further down the hill. Living in the desert meant sound traveled a much longer distance. That was something she was used to. However, it was so obnoxiously loud she wondered if anyone had called the cops. After hearing a few screams, the cacophony quickly died down. So did many of the lights; she could see it from the edge of the property. Maybe it was just a bunch of rowdy college kids that shacked up at the motel for the night. After listening hard, the silence drifted over the valley. She returned to her work, but within an hour was nodding off.

_"Serena..."_

She snapped up, frozen, her heart beating much too fast. It was the merest breath, as though someone whispered right in her ear. She slowly turned around, but saw no one, nothing out of the ordinary. She hugged herself, suddenly cold. It wasn't just the whisper that freaked her out, but the familiar, intimate, almost laughing tone; as though someone called to her, waiting for…

Serena blushed and shook her head. She _had_ to put those romance novels away. They were starting to rot her brain.

_I must have been dreaming,_ she thought. She stood up and stretched, trying to wake up. Just as she was about to sit back down, the lights in the tiny office flickered and went out.

_Oh great._

Just what she needed, a blackout! Scrounging around for a flashlight, she never saw him enter. A noise made her spin around. In the dark she forgot about the coffee table and tripped over it. The flashlight went flying, and so did she. Screaming, she fell backwards and braced for impact…only it never came. Someone caught her.

"Are you all right?" a voice said. She gasped, blushing to her toes in an instant. That had to be the richest, sexiest voice she'd ever heard. A voice that chuckled next, laughing in such a way as to make her toes curl up in her shoes.

And the smell; just what was that cologne that teased her? She inhaled deeply in spite of herself. Never underestimate the power of a man who smells good. For Serena, his fragrance was intoxicating, so delicious yet she couldn't quite describe it. It was almost as though it kept changing to keep her guessing. One moment he was spicy but subtle, the next he was earthy and musky.

_Who-a voice actor?_ That was her first thought. She stood quickly, trying to pull out of his gentle embrace, a mutter of thanks on her lips when she looked into his face. Her words died, and her throat went dry as she realized this wasn't just some handsome stranger. Even though it was dark, she thought she recognized his silhouette.

_This is a dream. I have to be dreaming._

He smiled down at her. "Hello," he said softly, locking eyes with her, much like a cobra hypnotizing its prey. He was at least a head taller than she, maybe more. She never realized how a man's voice could sound exactly like a lion purring. Indeed, the look in his eyes reminded her of a lion, or some large predator eyeing lunch.

_This is…but it can't be him, he's-!_

"Are you hurt, sweetheart?" he said, continuing to speak in that smooth, silky voice. He still hadn't let go of her completely. As she tried to pull away, his hands slid down her arms until he grasped her own. He brushed his thumbs over the top of her knuckles while giving her a slow, appreciative onceover.

She gasped at how cool his hands were. Cool, but not cold, nor clammy; that was…odd. This was Arizona in the heart of summer. It became cool at night, but not so cool as to make him feel like he stepped out of September.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, chuckling as though it was a naughty, private joke.

She was alone with him…alone in the dark with Alan Wake. It was as though her most secret fantasy had come to life. Serena's mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

_Aw, how cute,_ Mr. Scr*tch thought, _she's dressed just a dorkily as Alan. Wait, what do they call that? Oh yeah…geek chic', ha!_

"I must admit," he said with a delightfully wicked smile, "it's not every day I get to rescue a pretty girl."

All it took was a touch for possession to begin. One might equate it to a sort of poison or drug. For Mr. Scr*tch, the form was usually just a wisp of smoky darkness that entered the mind, usually through the ears or nose or whatever orifice he chose. Usually he was impatient and consumed his victims, overtaking all of their senses, their rationale, their sanity in seconds.

Tonight, he was restless. He wasn't enjoying himself as much as he wanted. The time loop should have been perfect, but it wasn't. Wake's damned creativity was a necessary evil. He needed Wake's gift of writing to keep him alive, to make him strong, but Wake was also working against him. Somehow Wake's notes had pulled through the rift. Mr. Scr*tch scattered those cursed pages everywhere. Surely Wake couldn't find them all! He'd have to win some sort of award if he did!

Mr. Scr*tch fumed. Alan Wake was known to be a bit of a party animal. The only partying Mr. Scr*tch had seen had been Bright Fall's Deerfest, and that was looking on from afar. He wanted everything Wake had, and so he wanted to experience the decadent revelry of a party-the noise, booze, fights, sex, everything. The party he'd started earlier grew out of hand. It had pissed him off, even though it was mostly his own doing, for it was interfering with the various recordings he wanted to torment Wake with. When he couldn't stand it anymore, he had gone out, and after a few vicious fisticuffs, spread his dark influence everywhere. When done, nearly everyone who had attended the party was in his thrall as Taken. The exceptions were the scientist and some woman he'd killed for sport, and the mechanic Emma Sloan. Emma…that hippie bitch had been fun, but she was just a little too…_out there,_ even for his taste.

He focused on Serena. He squeezed her hand and gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his finger slowly grazing the top of her ear till it both burned and tickled her.

He withdrew. "Pardon the intrusion," he said with a little bow. "I hope I didn't frighten you too much, Miss…?"

"I…" Serena tried. Her thoughts were a mess. "I…"

"What's the matter?" he asked softly. "Cat got your tongue?"

Now there was an idea. He chuckled again as she struggled to speak. So restless, but patient, and confident, too, for hadn't he told Wake earlier that he had all the time in the world? After he was through, Wake would be trapped forever, and Mr. Scr*tch could be free to live as he wished in his place. He could even play with this little slut who had a connection to Wake, if only through his precious wife, Alice.

The curator blinked. "S...S-Serena," she mumbled. "I'm Serena."

"Sweet Serena, a pleasure," he winked, his voice hinting at a certain kind of pleasure that made her breath catch in her throat. He continued. "I need your help. I have some film clips I'd like you to play for me. Can you do that, sweetie?"

When she _still_ couldn't say anything, he released her and suddenly she could speak again…sort of.

"M-Mr. W-W-W…!" Serena spluttered, coming to life. She stared up at him. She couldn't help it. Was he really who she thought he was?

"Well?" he insisted, turning his tone ever so slightly.

Oops. "S-Sure," she said, suddenly eager to please him, almost needing to. She turned away. "Sorry, I…I think we blew a f-fuse. Let me g-go check the-"

"There's no need," he said, his voice dripping with sugar-coated venom. He caught her hand again and brought it to his lips. She thought she saw something fall out of his mouth and skitter away. She blinked and shook her head.

_Just my imagination,_ she thought, _I-I didn't see that._

She didn't know why she was more excited than afraid. Normally she'd be screaming her head off at the sheer _wrongness_ of the entire situation, but he was taking up all of her attention. It was as though, without a word, he commanded it, _demanded_ it from her.

"As a matter of fact, let's keep the lights off," he added, bemused at her confusion. Part of her mind was still fighting him. He could feel it, but her will wasn't strong enough. Her talent was focused on pleasing others, so she was quite compliant, not wanting to offend him.

"Will you do that for me, Serena?" he asked. "Turning the lights on isn't allowed, okay? That would make me very angry."

"Y-Yeah," Serena said, suddenly timorous. She couldn't stop staring at this man. Was this really Alan Wake, the famous author that went missing?

Oh, he wore the same ridiculously handsome face, but now it wasn't just ridiculous; it was wickedly handsome, _and he knew it._ But the awkwardness she'd observed in the film was gone. Gone too were the dorky clothes he wore. He had no tweed coat, no faded hoodie; he had nothing that was humble or self-deprecating.

She shook her head, angry with herself. What was wrong with her? What was she thinking? He was married! She worked with Alice Wake, for crying out loud! How unprofessional could she be? She'd heard the rumors, of course, that he was alive, that he could be an asshole, but not in _that_ way. He loved Alice. Everyone and anyone who was a fan of his work knew that. Alice was his muse!

She shook her head again, feeling dizzy and almost drunk. Goosebumps suddenly marched up and down her skin. She rubbed her arm. Her skin felt electric, tickling her all over, almost itchy.

"Good," Mr. Scr*tch whispered. His lips grazed her knuckles, and she couldn't help but gasp. She blushed harder. Well, if it was just a dream, surely it was safe, right? She could respond in kind and not get in trouble, right?

Mr. Scr*tch slowly turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then let his mouth slide down her wrist. She responded by stroking his unshaven jawline-timidly, at first. His reply was rubbing his face against her palm, just like a cat would, rumbling another lion's purr.

His eyes were different now too, she noted. Before, she was certain they were the same baby blues he was known for. Now she couldn't see the irises, and for a moment wondered if he had any. All she saw was darkness there…a darkness, barely reflecting any light at all, that was both intimidating yet somehow was inviting her in.

_I'm dreaming,_ she thought, stifling a giggle. _That's the only explanation that makes sense! I just reviewed that film with him in it, right? So that must be why I'm seeing him here! That's why he's acting like a gigolo, just like my books!_

Suddenly, Mr. Scr*tch had another idea, and nearly giggled from the perversion of it. When he'd dragged Wake here through the rift, he'd gotten an extra, unexpected tool. He had been trying to learn from Wake's example-the soul he twisted to become a murder of crows was very inspired, and the souls he'd managed to split in two were a great distraction if a bit weak, but the spiders, ah…the spiders. What a gift they were. Even though they were only extra bits of animated darkness, they proved quite useful. Many had followed after pouring out of the rift, though he made sure some of the bigger ones stayed near the motel and at that infernal observatory.

With a small start, he suddenly realized he had neither killed nor corrupted the scientist who worked there. He was in a hurry at the time, wanting to stay ahead of Wake, so it must have slipped his mind; he couldn't even remember her name. No matter. She didn't have what he wanted, but this one-Serena-did. She had a gift for photography and film. Working with Alice was a bonus torture for Wake if he messed with her. Her creative spirit wasn't as strong as Wake's, nor was her will, but Mr. Scr*tch decided to take his time and twist her into something she was not-a whore.

He'd called the spiders to him. When he'd caught Serena in his arms, she didn't notice the spider that popped out of his sleeve and jumped onto hers. It was soon followed by another…then another. They trickled out of his shirt, his pockets and collar, racing down his arms, spinning their silvery webs around her as they went, slowly paralyzing her. They nestled in her clothes, her hair, waiting for the perfect moment to slip inside her mind and infect her like a virus.

Oh yes. Mr. Scr*tch had all the time in the world to play with sweet Serena, and she was already halfway there, but didn't have a clue. One by one, the spiders began sneaking inside of her, crawling mostly into her ears.

"You don't look all that well, my dear girl," Mr. Scr*tch said, feigning concern. "You don't have a fever, do you?" He removed her large glasses and brushed his fingers across her forehead. He grinned like a Cheshire. "Ooh…you're _so hot._ Maybe I should check." He pulled her closer and felt her body react to his. He leaned over and let his lips rest on her forehead. She gasped. His breath was as cool as an autumn breeze, like he'd chewed an ocean of mint. It felt good, almost too good.

_What is wrong with me?_ she thought dimly. _Why am I acting like this? Wait, why is_ he _acting like this?! Isn't he…this isn't the first time I've met a celebrity, yet here I am, acting like a giddy teenager. Why can't…I think?_

He held her for a moment too long, savoring the heat of her body, wishing he could absorb it. That was the other thing he craved-warmth. Light creates heat, but heat couldn't hurt him. Why were humans so warm? He couldn't figure it out, often opening the bodies that were so very hot-steaming! He'd bathe himself in the warmth of his third favorite color, even ingesting it, but for some reason they would grow so cold so soon.

Mr. Scr*tch knew that Wake had done a lot of research, and so knew that the soul was often associated with light. Perhaps that's where the heat came from, but for all of the people he'd killed over time, he'd never seen one with his eyes. Perhaps it took the vision of the gifted to see them.

The spiders continued to encircle Serena in their poisonous webs. Mr. Scr*tch chuckled softly again. Serena hitched a breath and gulped as three more spiders entered her mouth. She scratched her head and disturbed about two dozen more spiders. With every touch, every caress, even more spiders flowed out of him and into her, crawling all over her body. Soon, she was completely at his mercy, almost a full Taken.

"Tell me where the power station is," he rumbled, holding her even closer, "I want to make sure the night never ends. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Y-yes," she said, hearing her own voice from far away. Before she knew what she was doing, she hooked her fingers into his belt. Irritated because she didn't answer his first question, he grabbed her by the throat and twisted til it hurt

"Business first," he hissed, "now…where?" He released her throat so she could answer. She didn't even cough.

"It's…it's beyond the drive-in," she mumbled, "just down the hill. You can run down in a few minutes."

"Good girl," he whispered, stroking her head like an obedient child. She stared up at him as two more spiders encroached on her vision.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. Later on, she couldn't remember if he actually did or if she heard his voice inside her mind.

_"You think you're dreaming, don't you, my sweet Serena?"_ he whispered in that same breathy voice she'd heard earlier. _"And you're right. It's just you and me here, all alone. And you want me, don't you?"_

"Y…yes," she replied dimly. "I…I always have," she admitted, almost forlorn. "I just…I'm…such a huge fan…"

_"Of course you are, sweetie,"_ he said, holding her possessively and swaying a bit, _"And I want you. But first I must…make sure we aren't disturbed. The projector booth and power station must be protected, you see. I need to go and…leave behind some insurance. Do you understand?"_

"No," she said, completely under his spell now as the spiders finally crawled into her eyes. "Don't go. I want…I want you. I want you to…take me. Now!"

He laughed. _"I already did, sweetheart."_ He giggled at her confused expression, and couldn't help laughing at her plight. Poor, sweet Serena, drunk on darkness, wanting to fuck him and all the while coated with spiders!

_"No, business first, I said."_ His tone was almost gentle. She made a little whine of protest. He smiled.

_"Aww…"_ he breathed, relenting just a moment more. _"Very well, my sweet Serena, I will. I'll give you just a little taste of what's to come."_

Mr. Scr*tch always liked a flair for the dramatic. He bent her over backwards, his thumb stroking her mouth to clear away the webs that covered her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, almost lazy. Elated, she wanted to see him clearly. She couldn't, of course, both because of the spiders that skewed her vision and because she had no idea where her glasses went, not that she really cared.

She pulled his head down and looked at him full in the face.

_And saw absolutely nothing there._

Terror slashed her stomach as she realized that _this was no dream._ She really was awake…awake, and…and Wake…_Wake!_ He wasn't Wake at all!

_And so…the spiders…oh, god…ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod_

She opened her mouth to scream, only to have his cold, cruel lips cover hers completely, felt what might have been some sort of a tongue force its way into her mouth and taste her greedily, and she knew, _knew_ he was feeding on her fear, her energy.

She felt her shirt being unbuttoned and felt cool fingers lick over skin, her breasts. She wanted to scream but couldn't. She couldn't breathe. It was as though he was taking her breath into him. Her fear was like sex to him, better than sex. His masculine sounds of pleasure grew deeper and more guttural until he no longer sounded human. Hell _(?)_ an animal would have been more human.

The spiders danced all over her skin sending shivers down her spine and all over her body. She suddenly couldn't feel the floor anymore. The terror and lack of oxygen made her lightheaded. As she began to pass out, everything around her began to go dark.

Her final coherent thought was a verse from a poem, only not about spiders:

_"I did not ask his name-I thought him Love;  
I did not care to see his hidden face.  
All life seemed born in my intaken breath;  
All thought seemed flown like some forgotten dove.  
He bent to kiss and raised his visor's lace…  
All eager-lipped I kissed the mouth of Death."_

(Verse from Sonnet I, by Gwendolyn Bennett)


End file.
